Left Behind
by Shattered Artisan
Summary: The Infection has burned through Fullton, Pennsylvania, leaving nothing behind but the walking dead and one man who just happened to have a copy of The Zombie Survival Guide. What to do now, with only the company of the undead?
1. Since Now

_**Left 2 Die**_

_**Episode One: **Left Behind_

_**Chapter One: **Since Now_

Dawn. It always found him with such a bad taste in his mouth. Some days, when Scott Collins slept for a particularly long amount of time, he hated waking up. It took ten full minutes of brushing his teeth and a quarter container of mouthwash to get out that awful taste and all the phlegm that had accumulated overnight.

This morning was particularly merciful. Only a quick brush had cured him of the taste, and any lingering remains were demolished with a bowl of Frosted Flakes. Scott sat alone at a small table in his apartment. He ate quickly and quietly, musing over his agenda for the day. As per usual, there was much to do.

After eating, he washed the bowl and spoon, left them to dry and made his way into the living room. With practiced routine, he turned on the radio first, and then the television. Neither presented anything new, whispering only static through both speaker and screen. Having come to expect this, Scott was dejected only slightly. He turned off the television, but switched the radio to CD, selected a song, turned up the volume and hit the play button.

As Paper Planes began to emanate from the high quality, overly priced speakers, Scott moved across the living room to the sniper rifle perched near the window. It was facing up, at the ceiling, as the window was closed. Nodding his head slightly to the beat, he pulled open the heavy shudders he'd installed and moved the rifle into position. Sunlight spilled into the room, bright and fresh, and was accompanied by a cool breeze.

It could have been a regular day, Scott reflected as he settled into position, the handle of the high powered rifle tight to his shoulder. It rested on a tall tri-pod. It _could_ have, if not for that soft whiff of old death and rusty blood that wafted in with the new day's breeze. It was a smell that, despite his considerable exposure, he'd never grown used to. It still sent a shiver down his spine. He settled his eyes against the scope, closing the other.

"Let's see what we're working with today." he murmured softly, moving the rifle and scope across the street below his third story apartment in a slow, broad arc. The street was rife with destruction and rubble. A few skeletal remains of burnt out vehicles here, a pile of corpses there...someday he vowed to give them all proper burials, even if they were complete strangers. They hadn't asked for this, and burial seemed correct.

At first, only a trio of the ugly, undead horrors milled about mindlessly on the street. But, as the song playing behind him picked up, others began to trickle into the area. A soft grin tugged at the corners of Scott's mouth. His finger tightened a little on the trigger as he began to pick his targets. None of the special ones, not yet, at least. Hopefully none at all. He considered the rifle in his hands as he prepared to fire.

It was an absolutely amazing piece of equipment. Semi automatic, none of that reload after ever shot nonsense, and he'd even managed to rig it so that it was belt fed. A chain of lengthy, bronze colored shells went from the rifle to a box on the ground. It was amazing what the military just left lying around...

Scott squeezed the trigger.

* * *

Life wasn't always like this for Scott Collins. In fact, nineteen of the past twenty years had been surprisingly dull. In relevance to the current situation, Scott felt that none of it had mattered until he turned nineteen. And received the present that changed his life. A fixation on Zombies became a full blown obsession when he read the pair of novels World War Z and The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks.

Before that, Scott's life was dull and almost listless. He'd graduated high school, but with rich parents came the absence of need. He wanted for nothing. He was lazy, doing little more than playing video games, hanging out with his friends and drifting around Portland, his hometown. Something like an existential crisis was abruptly absolved by this simple pair of novels. Scott knew that he had a purpose now, even if the purpose was ridiculous.

Knowing that his parents would never support him if he moved away, he took as much advantage as he could. For six months, he remained in Portland. He had laser eye surgery to correct his eyes and removed his need for glasses or contacts, knowing that he could never rely on replacements should the Zombie Apocalypse occur. He hired a personal trainer and worked his skinny, somewhat flabby form into...well, not quite a rock hard physique. But at least he could see _some_ definition in his muscles, and he could run a mile without dying for air.

He quit fast food and soda cold turkey, which was by far the hardest part. The video games, movies and novels stayed, however. His only real escape. With no job and no school, he needed some outlet from his training. In between sleeping and working out, he began training himself to do simple tasks. Basic electronics, vehicle repair, maintaining a garden. He also spent a lot of time training himself on basic combat techniques and firearm use. In six months, he learned more than he thought possible.

Once he began, and got going, Scott was amazed to discover how flat out motivated he had become. Throughout high school, he had often found himself desperately bored and borderline depressed. He'd seen a psychologist about it once, and the man had given him excellent advice that had, at the time, fallen on deaf ears. Humans were meant to stay busy, to advance themselves, to learn. They were also meant to be fit and healthy.

Deciding this meant he'd have to actually _work_ at something, Scott had ignored the man and buried himself in pointless media and useless culture. But during those six months and even beyond, it seemed as if he'd been storing up nineteen years worth of motivation and energy. And it was just now being tapped into.

Feeling fit and capable, and taking whatever money he had siphoned off one way or another into a private bank account, Scott found a job and an apartment in a town called Fullton in Pennsylvania, far away from his family, friends and life. He knew that in a world ruled by the undead, he would need to severe all attachments. His parents were furious, obviously, but they couldn't make him stay.

They didn't let him take anything, except for the car. Not that it mattered. He'd managed to talk them out of so much money beforehand that he was able to furnish his third floor apartment with more than enough to keep himself busy. The simple job, repairing vehicles in a nearby garage, both increased his knowledge of such, kept him busy and further sustained him with income. For six months, he continued his training, his exercise, his new life.

And life continued much in the same manner. He bought supplies, stocked up on cans and bottles of water. Surprisingly, it didn't get dull. It wasn't boring. He was obsessed with something, and it felt great. His life had meaning, even if it was a meaning that was probably never going to be fulfilled.

He watched the news and hunted for stories to fill the back of The Zombie Survival Guide, a section called the Outbreak Journal. And for six months, there was nothing. Not a thing. But all that changed a little over a month ago, when he began hearing reports of riots further north in the state and something called the Green Flu. It didn't sit well, so he touched up all of his preparations, listened harder and began writing in the journal.

It didn't take very long. Within days, the 'riots' began spreading all over Pennsylvania. Within a week, it had reached Fullton. Then the military moved in. Scott locked himself inside of his apartment and watched the chaos unfold. He refused to leave, to answer the door or the phone. Internet was cut, soon the TV and radio went dead. The phone lines became inactive. Blood ran in the streets. People died, fell down...and got back up again.

There was literally no more perfect of a vindication. What Scott had spent the past twelve months preparing for finally happened. He had no idea it would happen so soon...or at all. For two weeks, there was nothing but bloody chaos. And then there was nothing. Nothing but the moaning. As far as Scott knew, the last living Human had either left Fullton or died. He was all alone. And so he'd lived as such.

* * *

As the final shot rang true, and the last Zombie skull burst, spraying the vicinity with tainted gore, Scott nodded to himself. The area was clear, at least as far as he could tell. He turned and began to prepare his next activity.

Going out into a city ruled by the undead.


	2. A Well Fortified Position

_**Chapter Two: **A Well Fortified Position_

Scott carefully collected and inspected his gear. He stood at the waist high work table he had set up next to his front door. It held most of his arsenal. He began appropriating it all, setting each tool of destruction on its appropriate part of his body.

The combat knife was first. He slipped it into the sheath on his right hip. While he wasn't ambidextrous, he had taught himself to use his left hand decently well. The knife was sharpened each day.

The pistol was next. A Swiss SIG P210. He'd hunted around for quite a while before he'd found this weapon, in the beginning. He wanted to have one main pistol, and stick with it. Of course he'd taught himself how to use others, two other models as back ups and pistols in general. But he wanted to make sure he learned one intimately, and kept it on him, no matter what, so that he would always have the weapon he was most comfortable with. He trained daily with the 210. It was a beautiful thing. It was a sleek, dark sidearm. Heavy, but not too much so. He'd grown used to its weight. Unfortunately, he'd had to purchase it illegally, since he wasn't twenty one.

As if that mattered now. When he got the thing, it had been black with an ugly brown handle. He'd painted the handle a brilliant silver color. He'd also added in a laser scope and a silencer. The weapon was fairly common in most gun stores, Scott had found. That had been part of the deciding factor. Obviously, keeping this weapon meant that several areas would have to hold clips of ammo for it and the proper bullets.

One of the other deciding factors was that it took twenty twos. In The Zombie Survival Guide, Max Brooks had stipulated that twenty twos were the most common bullets in America, and should be considered number one on your list of bullets. It was true. Every store sold them. The only drawback, he had said, was that they didn't have much in the way of stopping power. That didn't seem to be a problem in _this_ particular outbreak, however.

Scott noted that most of the 'Common', as he called them, undead seemed to have a rapid state of decay. While they ran 28 Days Later style, they lacked the strength of any other Zombie he'd seen. And, interestingly, they didn't adhere to the number one rule set by George Romero in 1968: shoot them in the head.

The average Common could be taken out with a handful of shells to the body. The reality of surviving a Zombie Apocalypse had become much more realistic when Scott had learned this. Unfortunately, the Infected seemed to make up for this with the Specials. He'd seen three variations so far. He had heard names for them, over the radio waves. The Hunters. The Smokers. And the Tanks. In his travels, he had encountered them, but rarely. And the Tank only once. That was an instance he never wanted to repeat.

The Zombie Survival Guide did _not_ cover a Tank.

Securing his 210, Scott picked up the next weapon. Those Specials? They were the reason he carried the Desert Eagle. The military seemed to love it enough that he'd managed to find a perfectly functioning one and clips for it everywhere in the streets. It took forty-fives, an impressive caliber of bullet that had amazing stopping power. He had added a small flashlight and laser scope to the barrel of this handgun.

And that was the arsenal part of his inventory. It was all he had needed so far. As for clothing, he followed one rule: tight clothes and short hair. He kept his head buzzed and invested in clothing that was tight without being uncomfortable. He only wished there were women around. For once in his life, he felt _confident_ about his appearance. Before his change, he had always gone with loose fitting, baggy clothes and a big hoodie that covered his frame. He never felt very confident in the looks department. Never felt confident about much.

That thought snagged on Scott's mind as he prepared the rest of his meager inventory: a lighter, a tiny flashlight and a well packed first aid kit. A woman...For the same reason he had moved away from his parents and friends, Scott had never looked for a girlfriend. He found the idea of such impossible. There was likely no woman he could let close enough into his life that would understand his fixation.

But now that it had happened? Well, that was a whole different story. No one would think he was out of his mind for being obsessed with a Zombie Apocalypse, because it had already happened! Now, if only he could find just one living, attractive woman...

Scott cleared his head and finished gathering his gear. He double and triple checked everything, then headed for his door. It was a reinforced metal door that he'd stolen from a hardware store and lugged to his apartment after the dust had settled. He unlocked the padlock and stepped outside, locking the corresponding padlock on the other side, and then pocketing the key. It wouldn't stop a Tank, but it would keep anything else at bay indefinitely. Scott was pleased by the fact that so far, nothing had even made it into his apartment building yet.

Speaking of the apartment building...Scott mentally reviewed his specifications and progress on the defense of the structure as a whole as he approached the stairwell. He made his way through a second metal door he'd installed at the top of the stairwell next to his apartment. There was another one just like it down the corridor, at the other stairwell.

Since the town was abandoned, Scott had immediately begun work on fortifying his position. He had completely closed off the first floor. One of the reasons that Scott had chosen this apartment building in particular was that it was built with very strong and durable material, so that the average Zombie could not break through weak points in the structure. He double reinforced all of the windows with a layer of brick and mortar, and then a large piece of furniture over it. He was surprised, once more, at how fast he could move.

Each floor held six apartments. Each floor was designed exactly the same. After bricking up every window and exterior door, Scott would then thoroughly hunt over every square inch of each room and empty out any supplies he thought he might need. Weapons, food, bottles of water, clothing, random supplies. After that, he bricked off the front door to the apartment, as a sort of double insurance that even _if_ something got inside the apartment, it would have that much more trouble getting into the main building and ultimately up to him.

He had completed this process nine times now. The bottom floor was completely secure. The second floor half way finished. There were only two ways into and out of the apartment building now. The front and back doors had also been replaced with thick, secure metal doorways. As he made his way down to the second floor, he double checked everything.

Three apartments had been cleared out, bricked up and blocked off. At first, he had questioned bricking off the second story windows. But then he had heard and later witnessed how well the Hunters could climb, and even heard of the Commons doing the same, and then it was no question at all. Today, he hoped to finish up a fourth apartment and begin on a fifth. Eventually, he would have them all cleaned out and bricked off, save for his own. He also planned on bricking off the second stairwell. He wanted as little ways in and up as possible.

Eventually, the only window left not bricked off with be the one with the sniper rifle pointed out of it. That one led to a fire escape. His only real means of escape if the unthinkable occurred and something broke into his apartment. He had planned for this, and had a ladder connecting his apartment building to the next one over. Eventually, Scott planned on fortifying that one in much the same method.

He continued to make his way down through the building after making sure nothing undead was hiding in the second story. Each stairwell had a metal door at the base. It was a long and slow process of going down to the ground floor, but it was worth it. Scott eventually came to rest at the first floor, and slipped his 210 out of the holster. He kept the safety off. He checked what little open space that was left in the area, namely, the laundry room, the lobby and a communal bathroom. He had bricked up the small windows, but left them open for their obvious use as sources of water in case, for some reason, his stopped working.

The city still functioned, but Scott didn't know how long that would last. There was still power. There was still running water. Nevertheless, he had a pair of solar powered generators on the roof, ready to go, and a hell of a lot of water stored in the bathroom and laundry room. After making sure that the area was thoroughly clear, and everything was just as he left it, Scott pressed on, coming to the lobby of the building.

He glanced through a small slit in the metal door and peered around. Nothing had shown up since he'd taken out the local Zombies. He waited a few moments, then unlocked the door and stepped outside. After triple checking the area, he locked the door again, pocketed the ring of keys and put both hands on the pistol.

He mentally reviewed his list of things to do outside the apartment building today. There were two places he meant to check out. Scott had a map of the city, a very thorough map that clearly labeled each building. He had begun checking out each for supplies, and marking each off the list either once he had looted it completely, or found that it had already been cleaned out. He made sure he only did two a day, since much time was needed for each search, and being outside was quite dangerous, even despite his preparations.

Scott approached his vehicle of choice. A military issue HumVee. It was still in great shape, a well maintained piece of driving technology. He'd picked it up, keys still in the ignition, a few streets down, not too long ago. Again, he marveled at all the things the military just left lying around.

Feeling prepared, Scott slipped into the vehicle, started it up and began to drive down the road, deeper into the city.


End file.
